


The Durasteel Plumeria

by imperator_titus



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon Divergence, Death by a Thousand Cuts tie-in, F/M, Fix-It, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperator_titus/pseuds/imperator_titus
Summary: Things don't have to end the way they did. Self-indulgent Fix-it style.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Aneirin Pritchard (OFC), Armitage Hux/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	The Durasteel Plumeria

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wrote something Star Wars, been working on my novel, but I was inspired to write something after watching TROS. Everyone's entitled to their opinion, but I actually liked TROS. That being said, I still thought about a way Hux could survive.
> 
> If you haven't read my other work, you might be disappointed in my characterisation of Hux, especially if you like the more acrid/ruthless characterisations! Sorry to disappoint.
> 
> This is relatively short for me, but most of the background and character-building of this story is based upon my other fic, Death by a Thousand Cuts. I actually really want to rewrite that fic, but that'll take a while. Instead, have this alternative universe/canon divergence fic!
> 
> If you haven't read DbaTC, you're probably not missing much other than the context and depth of their friendship. And, of course, the character-building for Aneirin Pritchard (previously known as Aneirin Reader circa early 2018 when DbaTC started as a reader insert and for a while after.) 
> 
> I'm not Tolkien and didn't want to spend the time coming up with a language system for Corsaira, so instead, you have bold-italics. I'm also not a poet/songwriter and the song briefly featured is Ragnarok by Tyr.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Armitage's life started out much like many others that we've heard: go to school, meet someone, become best friends, and fall in love.

Except it was more like: be the illegitimate child of an Imperial General, get abused your whole childhood for being the subject of his mockery, be raised in the shadow of a dead dream of galactic supremacy, slowly lose a sense of humanity, go to school, meet someone, gain their trust, somehow end up giving them your respect, form a meaningful bond based on survival and genuine interest, fail to understand the new feelings you’re having, assign this someone the designation "friend" because they said that you’re their friend too, become very attached to the friend who treats you like the human being you were forgetting how to be, and realise too late what all those feelings meant.

"Feeling" wasn't really in his wheelhouse, whatever _that_ is, but he was fairly certain the current lack of feeling was actually an appropriate response. It was the calm before the storm, that anticipation before coming out of hyperspace. It was that long drawn out moment where everything was fine, where nothing hurt right before the body realised it had been stabbed right in the gut.

Mourning was against regulations, or at least fairly frowned upon. In the fight for control of the galaxy, there was no time to grieve the loss of every fallen ally. It was easier to never become attached to the people you saw every day and he'd been very good about it. All for one exception.

Armitage was not in the habit of crying. It was a mixture of the natural immunity that testosterone provided coupled with a long history of feeling the back of his father's hand whenever so much as a sniffle escaped him. Crying was a waste of time, a distraction, and most of all, a sign of weakness.

Tapping the datapad with a pale ungloved finger, he enlarged an image that he'd been staring at for some time, eating into his precious sleeping hours. Blue eyes like starburst sapphires stared back at him, stoic and serious, but that wasn't the way he remembered them. They would shine under the Arkanis sun and turn green when they looked at him, their pupils growing wide and pushing the colours all together. Those lips, slightly frowning, would almost always curl up when he spoke. The picture couldn't laugh or say his name with the only voice that he allowed to use it.

Armitage knew a lot of things that weren't in this file: trouble reading Basic, afraid of water, almost a better shot than him, could beat him 4 times out of 10 in hand-to-hand, 7 out of 10 with the practice batons they found once in the training room. But most important of all, he knew that the person in the picture was the kindest person he'd ever met, even if she'd willingly get in a fight with a cadet twice her size.

That didn't matter now. There was a red bar across the top that read "MIA - Presumed KIA" in imposing letters.

As he traced the curve of the late Captain Pritchard's cheek, a drop of water distorted the display. A great big sob, the first in many years, clawed its way out of his throat. Armitage choked and whined, tried to keep it down, but it was no use. His stomach clenched and his chest ached and his eyes burned. Groaning and mewling in a pathetic display of heartbreak, he turned off the datapad, but it was no use. The damage had been done.

Aneirin, his one and only friend, was dead.

And it was all the rebellion’s fault! In an act of courage, in an attempt to protect her base’s medbay from a rebel attack, she fell. When the smoke cleared, the rebel ship long gone, there was no captain. There was no body, either, but they presumed that a dark organic smudge near a thermal detonator explosion had been her. With no remains, there could be no space burial. Later he would think it was stupid, when all his tears were gone and his heart was sealed up in a black impenetrable box, but Armitage would just pray over and over again to every power in the universe that, with no body to be properly burned in the rites of her ancestors, someone sent Aneirin’s belongings back to Corsaira so that she could be memorialised in the Hall of Valour. He pleaded with the Maker for her beliefs to be real, begged the stars to convey her spirit home, and even whispered his hope to the Force that she would see her beloved family and friends again.

Grief never leaves, but the grieving was over. With cold heart, revenge fueled the fire that was Captain Hux’s need to destroy the Resistance.

Before, the war meant very little to him. It was a concept, just a reality of life in the galaxy. His whole life there had been war, before it there had been war, and even after he died there would be war. The side he was on didn’t matter much either. He was born in the Empire, he was raised by the First Order, and it was all he knew. To him, the war was just a he-said-she-said on a galactic scale dating back for thousands upon thousands of years. With feuds as old as dying stars, innumerable species and cultures on single planets alone, who could really say what was the truth, which was the better side?

Armitage didn’t think he was on the better side, no, but to him, the Resistance was just as capable of the First Order’s faults. They too wanted to unite the galaxy under a banner, they too had blood on their hands.

Now, the blood that was on their hands was blood he could not forgive. Now, he could never correct the mistake of keeping his feelings to himself.

Now, the war was personal.

* * *

Armitage was a captain and he thought that meant no more petty little tasks like information reconnaissance. In truth, it wasn’t that bad; he got time away from some of his worries, didn’t feel like someone was waiting for him to slip up. Even in a crowded spaceport, he felt alone.

There was news of a spy and High Command was so paranoid that they didn’t trust this information to be broadcasted, so they sent their closest captain to retrieve it in person. Waiting for the shuttle to go from spaceport to outpost, Armitage let his finger slide over one of the code cylinders attached to his jacket. No one else knew it, but it wasn’t actually like the others. This one was fake, hollowed out to hold the ink pen that the late Captain Pritchard had gifted him the last time they were on the same ship. It’d long ago run out of ink, his hand using it to idly make little swirls and shapes on some flimsiplast he found whenever his mind decided that it had had enough of reality. It would sit on his nightstand until he had the ingenious idea to disguise it as a code cylinder. Now it served as a good luck charm, a reminder of what he was doing all of this for, one last connection to the person he could've been.

The outpost captain offered him a shuttle back to the spaceport, but Captain Hux expressed a desire to walk back, give himself time to think about the information they’d given him in case he could find a solution. In reality, he just wanted the time to be alone, to walk in the unfiltered air and feel natural sunlight on his face. Normally the loud noises of cities bothered him, made him uneasy, but he was so utterly lost in his thoughts that they didn’t even reach his ears.

A sound broke through the cacophony of life and the shielding of his thoughts.

**_Revenge returns to us, this returns to me…_ **

He knew the words, foreign as they were, awkward on his tongue. He had heard them before, whispered under breath during moments of contemplation and sung to bolster the spirit during an arduous journey. They gripped him by the heart and shook his soul, reminding him of another life he lived once. A life he’d buried in the unforgiving emptiness of space so that the blow to his spirit would be only scarring and not fatal.

**_We are bound to battle for eternity..._ **

Armitage stopped and listened for the source of the voice, its tone so familiar. His ears searched and sifted through the noises all around him as if they were merely his daily reports or articles on the HoloNet.

**_The wolf restrained in chains, dragons in the deep..._ **

He started wandering down an alley, heard the voice bouncing off the walls. There was a window open, it had to be coming from there, it was the only way such a sound could be heard. So, he went in search of it.

**_This war will throw us corpses in a heap…_ **

Banging a fist on the metal door, Armitage briefly wondered if he was going insane. Maybe it was the ghost of his grief, maybe he wasn’t sleeping enough. Maybe he just _thought_ the words were from the particular strand of Corsairan that he’d learned long ago to understand someone special to him, to decipher little notes and phrases, and use them at an opportune time to show just how much he cared. The opportunity would never come.

The door opened and the embodiment of panic stared back at him. He stood toe-to-toe with a ghost.

“Ani?” he managed to ask, his voice small and weak. Pulling him inside, the room’s occupant secured the door with a resounding and reaffirming _click._

For a moment they just stood there, staring at one another in amazement. Tentatively, as if he didn’t trust his eyes, Armitage reached out a gloved hand and gently touched the doctor’s cheek. With tears beginning to sting his eyes, he whispered, “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry, Armitage,” Aneirin said in her obvious shock. Reverently, she laid a hand on top of his and pressed it more firmly against her face, cementing the reality of their reunion in the touch. Armitage pulled her into an embrace and buried his face in her dark-gold hair as his heart gave up every tear he’d been holding back for the past 2 years. He squeezed, tighter and tighter, until she wheezed. “Are you happy to see me, or are you killing me?”

The officer let go, but not all at once. His touch lingered, making sure she stayed solid. Then it gripped her for balance as Armitage felt he world fall out from underneath him.

His best friend was _alive._

Which meant the Resistance didn’t kill her. The Resistance didn’t require his revenge, his _hatred._ Now he would go back to just following orders.

His best friend was _alive_ and _not_ in a First Order uniform.

“You’re with the Resistance,” Armitage muttered plainly, the statement for his own benefit. “But _why?_ Why would you do this to me?”

“I went to the Academy not knowing what they were doing,” Aneirin answered, taking his hands into hers. Despite the worrying words coming from her mouth, the contact reassured him, made him feel safe in this traitor’s hidey-hole. “The First Order blocked Corsaira’s transmissions once they set up their outpost, we didn’t know what was going on outside of our system. Back then I thought the good would outweigh any bad, that I could help more people than were hurt, so I could bring back what I learned to Corsaira, convince them to let us into the rest of the galaxy again.

“But it was so much _worse_ than that.” Their eyes locked in solemn sincerity, the pain evident in them both. “I couldn’t live with helping them, but I couldn’t just outright defect, it’d only hurt my planet.”

_Alongside her subordinates and stormtrooper guards, Captain Aneirin Pritchard defended the medbay against the rebel attack. One of her shots missed a rebel by mere inches, enough to look like a simple calibration error, but it wasn’t._

_It wasn’t looking like the battle was going to end in their favour. So, brave and valiant, the captain doctor ordered her troops back behind the blast doors. Once they were safely sealed inside, the outside control pad exploded in a shower of sparks, her blaster-shot finding its target with ease and good conscience._

_Throwing the blaster away, she put up her hands in surrender. Two rebels took her roughly by the arms and escorted her back to their ship. Their mission finished, their wounded recovered, they sped away before any First Order reinforcements could arrive. In and out, smooth and simple._

_“Why’d you surrender?” their leader asked her, gruff and spiteful._

_“I can’t work for them anymore,” Aneirin admitted with her head held high. “I know what they’ve done and I can’t be a part of that anymore. My planet believes in peace, but there is no peace to be found in the First Order.”_

_She gave them everything she knew, except anything that would harm the one person that mattered to her most._

Armitage fell into a chair so hard that it hurt. She’d betrayed the First Order and therefore, she’d betrayed him. Betrayed by the only person he would call his friend, he was devastated.

Once again, Aneirin took his hands. Sapphire eyes commanded his gaze and spoke with all her heart. “Come with me. Don’t help them do these awful things. It isn’t _you._ I _know_ it isn’t. In you is someone _kind,_ someone _sweet,_ just like me. I know you. The _real_ you. The person you _want_ to be, not the one those abusive _sadists_ need you to be.”

How many times did he dream about being his own person? Getting a freighter and just hauling cargo up and down the shipping lanes? Bounty hunting? Work for one of the big manufacturers as a design engineer? Hang it all up and herd nerfs?

Join the Resistance and destroy everything his father and the people who ridiculed him stood for?

“I can’t,” he insisted, but he didn’t know why. Armitage would never know why, but many times he’d feel a pang of regret for not accepting her invitation.

“You’ll either have to _kill_ me,” Aneirin said quite seriously, still holding his hands, “or let me go.”

“I could bring you back with me,” he argued, but she fixed him with a hard look, a look he’d only seen her use on the people who made the mistake of being their enemies.

“If you’re going to do that, then have the _guts_ to kill me _yourself_ ,” she spat, a warning edge in her tone, “because the result is the same. Kill me here, tell no one, and at least Corsaira won’t burn for my conscience.”

The captain took a deep breath and sagged, his spirit weakened. There was no way he could kill her, he couldn’t even bear to see her injured, thinking she was dead was _catastrophic_ , but turning her in would be just like killing her, with the added guilt that she’d be tortured for information first. He couldn’t let her planet, a place he briefly got to visit and had to tear himself away from, be punished for his weakness.

“I won’t tell anyone.” Deeply hurt and heartbroken, Armitage hung his head. He didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps, didn’t want to disregard her morals, but the Resistance felt like a lost cause, a few bannermen gathered around their princess. He didn’t want to die for nothing, even if it was with her by his side. “If we could, I’d take us away from all of this. Not have to choose, no more fighting.”

“I think about that too,” she admitted softly. “I think about what our life would’ve been like if you’d been born on Corsaira. We would’ve been friends. You would’ve been happy.”

Armitage’s throat felt tight and he had to swallow a few times to speak. “At least… At least you’re alive. At least I got to see you again. All I wanted was to see you again.”

“I’m glad I got to see you too,” Aneirin reassured him with a smile and a squeeze of his hands.

“Does Corsaira know you’re alive?” he asked out of pure curiosity. It’d haunted his thoughts for so long, the fact that her body would never know the sunshine again, that her spirit wouldn’t find its way home and join her family in whatever came after life.

The now-rebel doctor went from warm to grave and she looked away, staring at nothing as if deep in thought. For a moment, Armitage thought he’d hit a nerve and opened his mouth to apologise, but he didn’t need to.

“Do you love me?” Stunned, he had no immediate answer other than a shocked expression. “Because _I_ love _you_ , and I want to trust you, but how can I if you don’t love me?”

After the initial disturbance, the captain knew what his old friend meant. If he didn’t love her, how could she trust that Captain Hux of the First Order wouldn’t use her words against her or her new cause? Surely he could _lie_ , anyone like him would be a _good_ liar, an _excellent_ liar, and while she might have known the person he was, she might not know the man he _is._

Armitage didn’t _need_ to lie, didn’t _want_ to lie, and the man he thought he _was_ just an hour ago wasn’t the man he _is_ anymore. He still wasn’t the person she’d known, that double-sided cadet or the stone-faced lieutenant, but he certainly wasn’t the monster she was worried he’d become.

“I _do_ love you,” he answered earnestly, his grip firm around her hands clasped in his. “I would _never_ betray you or your words. Perhaps I can’t prove it, but… Maybe, as a token of good faith-”

Not that long after just receiving the information, the captain flushed all of High Command’s security measures down the fresher without an ounce of remorse.

“That’s not _me,_ ” Aneirin admitted with a laugh, “but I can think of who it is.”

“Good, the last thing I need is you getting _caught_ right after I just found out you’re alive,” he said, sighing in relief. Armitage was trying to control his pounding heart before a strange device was placed in his hand. “What’s this?”

“I _did_ go home,” she answered, showing him another device just like the first. “The mother-planet is pretty fed-up with the First Order, _especially_ the information embargo.

“This is the _Merkbrecher C-1_. It’s a paired communications device that some engineering students made that connect to the HoloNet and Order relays without being detected. They figured out how to bypass the jammers blocking communications to our moon relay but _that’s_ a little more complicated and obvious than these.”

Armitage turned the device over in his hand, feeling the indentations in the mostly-spherical surface. It looked almost like a modified thermal detonator and had a decent heft to it as he gently tested its weight. Even his genius eye for electronics couldn’t figure it out. “How does it work?”

“Well, that’s the smart thing about it being a _spy_ device,” Aneirin said with a mischievous smirk splitting her lips. “It only responds to Corsairan voice-commands.”

She held up her device, pressed a hidden button, and deliberately said, “ ** _Power 3-A, ALP._** ”

The device lit up with a gentle orange glow and there was a _whir_ before it opened up along its equator like a flower, revealing a holo-emitter interface. The words that scrolled around were decidedly _not_ Galactic Basic, but Armitage recognised them with surprising ease. There had been sheaves of them littering his desk before they were ceremoniously incinerated by his lighter after a forgettable night-cycle of drinking.

“I guess I’ll have to teach you the interface, but that’ll take a while-”

“ ** _3-B awaiting marriage,_** ” Armitage said in the stilted tone of people not used to reading as he pointed at a string of letters on the display. With some embarrassment, he added, “Requires _pairing._ I assume 3-B is mine?”

Mouth slightly parted, Aneirin nodded at his upheld device. The silence necessitated his explanation, awkward as it was. “I… taught myself Corsairan. A long time ago. And I picked up a translation guide when I was there. Although, that was Corsairan-to-Basic, so it was rather difficult to deconstruct-”

“Why?”

“I… wanted you to not feel so lonely,” he answered, melancholy causing his eyes to glitter in the holo-emitter light. “I don’t really know, I just had the urge and I did it.”

Something beautiful crossed her plain face for just a moment. Then it was back to business. “We probably don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll just get it set up and I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out the rest.”

After a rudimentary breakdown of how the C-1 could display the location of the paired devices and act as a communicator, it was time for the captain to leave.

“I’m not sure how long my ‘walk’ bought me, but I really should go,” Armitage said sadly, the weight of the device almost worrying in his trouser pocket.

“I’m gonna get out of here too, just in case.” Her own reluctance to say goodbye inspired something stupid in him.

When their lips moved away from each other, he smiled. “ ** _I really do love you._** ”

“I love you too,” Aneirin replied, her face red and shy. “If you ever change your mind, you know how to find me. Otherwise… Maybe we’ll see each other around.”

“It’s a big galaxy,” Armitage retorted with a tone he heard in a holofilm once. The hero that delivered the line was supposed to be suave and sexy, but it only made his intended partner laugh. He liked that more than swooning.

Captain Hux of the _Absolution_ , a command he hated because it was ordered to feed the stormtrooper program and it once belonged to the late General Brendol Hux, returned to his ship.

“You seem… _pleased,_ captain,” Phasma, the captain of his stormtroopers, pointed out with equal parts surprise and confusion when they were finally alone.

Armitage received his tea with downright _glee_ and it was unnerving for his PFC to see before scurrying away. Looking out the stars, watching as the planet receded and the stars began to turn into streaks as the hyperdrives kicked in, he sipped the hot liquid, not even caring that it wasn’t bitter enough.

“I’ve had some new insights regarding a personal project of mine,” he explained, his smile reflected faintly in the transparisteel. “I think it’s time for bigger and better things, don’t you?”

“As you wish,” the tall woman answered stoically before returning to her duties.

In complete privacy, Armitage removed the Merkbrecher C-1 from his pocket just to make sure it was still there.

* * *

Through the viewport, the soon-to-be youngest general of the First Order watched the city-planet of Coruscant glitter with its deceiving armour of splendour. Feeling the time was right, he pulled something heavy and round from his coat.

“ ** _Power 3-B, ABH,_** ” he commanded in a quiet voice, the excitement barely contained. The device unfurled like a metallic flower, the pistils of its holo-emitters coming to life with orange light. Despite checking the coordinates of the dot labelled ‘3-A’ not that long ago, relief still washed over him. “ ** _Request verbal communication, at your leisure. Request timeout in 5 minutes._** ”

His delicate wrist went limp, hand cradling the hemisphere-in-bloom firmly in gloved fingers, as he waited for the response. It only took 30 seconds before he heard, “ ** _Little dragon tells me congratulations are in order._** ”

“ ** _Aren’t you the little spy?_** ” Armitage responded with a curl in words, a smirk spreading across his lips.

“ ** _I’m not a spy, not the kind you mean,_** ” Aneirin Pritchard laughed, the sound still recognisable through the minor amount of static. “ ** _Like I said, a little dragon told me. I heard you finished the plans for your solar-power-redistribution-machine._** ”

“ ** _A clunky name. I was thinking more like ‘intersolar fuck-off generator.’ Sounds classier._** ”

“ ** _I love the way you use Corsairan slang. It’s really cute, almost sexy._** ”

“ ** _Are you enjoying home?_** ” he asked with no small amount of fondness after a suppressed boyish giggle.

“ ** _For now. Mission materials are almost ready._** ”

“ ** _Oh? A new fancy gadget?_** ”

“ ** _Sorry, sailor, you don’t have that kind of clearance,_** ” the rebel deflected, though not coldly. “ ** _Come back when you’re an admiral._** ”

“ ** _Don’t think I won’t, doctor,_** ” Armitage retorted with an unseen gleam in his eye. “ ** _Though, when that day comes, I hope you will be there to see it._** ”

“ ** _You’re gonna have to switch sides, then._** ”

“ ** _I wish you could be here,_** ” he said with sudden sadness, curling his wrist so that the C-1’s microphone could accommodate for the softening of his voice.

“ ** _I’ve seen Coruscant, it’s kind of a shithole,_** ” Aneirin grumbled on the edge of unintelligible. “ ** _A shithole covered in gold._** ”

“ ** _No, not Coruscant, just-_** ” Armitage paused as he considered his words. “ ** _Here. Here with me._** ”

“ ** _I’m sorry._** ” He could hear the remorse, the longing, the tone of someone who knew they were disappointing someone dear to them. Once upon a time, he’d apologised to his father like that.

“ ** _No, don’t be. I’m just glad you’re safe right now._** ” There was a pain in his heart, but it went away as soon as he heard her voice again.

“ ** _You think it’s alright if I send you a gift? Well, if our esteemed ruler sends you a gift. To congratulate you on your promotion._** ”

“ ** _It might be acceptable. As long as it’s not a box of grenades._** ”

“ ** _Shit, I’ll have to think of something else, then…_** ”

It was difficult not to laugh. General Hux did not laugh. No one could know that anything was different.

* * *

“ ** _Power 3-B, ABH. Request…_** ”

Armitage took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke with a sigh, looking much like a weary dragon. The Merkbrecher C-1 beeped, its orange holo-emitter changing to red as a warning that a request had not been completed.

“ ** _Request verbal communication, Urgency 1. Timeout… an hour,_** ” he finished dully. His heart wasn’t in it. Normally he was so excited to power up the little device, but today was not that kind of day.

The coordinates weren’t as safe as he liked, but they had been moving steadily over the course of the past week, so it was unlikely that 3-A’s owner was dead. Or the little metallic ball had been commandeered by pirates. But he was definitely holding out hope that the ball was on a completely friendly ship because he couldn’t take one more blow to his morale.

After about 20 minutes, the orange light turned green to signal its activation.

“ ** _ ** _This is the Eir, what’s shaking?_** ”_** a familiar voice chirped from the speaker. Any other day and Armitage would’ve rushed to pick the device back up. Today, it was unceremoniously scooped up.

“ ** _ ** _They fucked me._**_** ”

“ ** _ ** _Pretty sure I covered the exclusivity field of our relationship,_**_** ” Aneirin responded, somehow both suspicious and humoured.

“ ** _ ** _They turned my design into a weapon,_** ”_** Armitage explained, ignoring her joke. “ ** _ ** _They’re not going to use it to refuel dying stars or reduce fuel consumption. They made it into a planet-killer. A mass-planet-killer._** ”_**

There was silence, but the green of the holo-emitter light told him that there was still a connection. One dying cigarette was used to light another.

“ ** _Do I get to ask how this is all going to happen?_ ** ” the doctor-spy asked cautiously, seriously, _gravely._

“ ** _I want to tell you, but it’s in such an early stage, I’d undoubtedly get pegged for a mole._** ” As much as he hated the idea of his idea being perverted into _this_ , he liked being in one piece too much. “ ** _Maybe warn the Republic of rumblings. Nothing definitive. Hell, even I don’t know what’s happening yet._** ”

“ ** _I’m sorry, Armitage, I know how much that project meant to you._** ” In between her words, he could hear the thing unsaid: “ ** _I know you feel responsible for this._** ”

“ _ **I**_ ** _became a general so I could protect you, so I could steer the course of this war… I’ve been played for a fool._** ”

“ ** _You’ll figure something out, I know you will._** ” There was a brief moment of static. " ** _ **I** gotta go. I love you. I believe in you._ **”

“ ** _I love you too,_** ” the general managed to say before the communication was forcefully terminated. The light went from green to red and then back to its normal orange. The information on one side went blank as the device’s mate was hurled into hyperspace.

* * *

In his private quarters, an ashtray was overflowing with still-smouldering cigarettes. An orange light bathed his tired pale face, fading in and out slowly like a radio tower warning beacon. Eventually, it flickered, died, and came back to life, indicating the timer had run its course.

“ ** _Relay message,_** ” Armitage commanded, voice rough and harsh. “ ** _Please forgive me. I have little choice. Hopefully, I have made the better decision. I am losing my control, but I will do my best to steer the tide of this war._** ”

It was the best he could do, the best he could say. He only hoped that it was believable.

He’d been given a choice: the Hosnian system, or every planet known to have a Resistance base. Either way, billions, _trillions_ , would die, innocents and rebels, maybe even some First Order spies. There would be no destruction of an uninhabited planet, that was weak. No, there had to be a _real_ show of power.

There had been a third option, yes: refuse to give the order. This was disregarded for what felt like very obvious reasons: the general would be hastily replaced with someone who _would_ give the order, his death meant he _couldn’t_ keep his oldest friend out of danger if he couldn’t control the planetary raids, and he was, most of all, a _coward_. Not in _all_ senses of the word, he’d done some pretty brave and selfless things in his life, but he wasn’t enough of a hero, a _protagonist_ , to get himself executed in private. If it wasn’t heard by the galaxy that one man, a _general_ , had opposed the decision to annihilate 5 planets, then what was the point? Where was the dramatic energy that could inspire a fracture in the ranks?

At least with a little more time, he could mitigate any further damage.

They were barely even his words that he shouted with all the false zeal that he used to rehearse in a darker time of his life. Uninspired to deliver a death-knell speech for an order he didn’t want to give, he borrowed and tailored the words of old tyrants to fit the situation.

All that time pretending to be someone else made it easier to assume the role of the ruthless general, but it didn’t make it easier to _live_ with what he’d done.

Armitage chose the Hosnian system because he knew that Aneirin was on one of those planets listed for harbouring rebels. There were dozens of reasons that could be concocted for the pros and cons of each option, but the fact of the matter was, it came down to the life of one person.

* * *

Everything was falling apart.

Everything _hurt._

Armitage was losing _control._

The Merkbrecher C-1 didn’t chirp for _months._ His only consolation was that the 3-A still broadcasted its coordinates and sent read receipts for the messages he kept leaving. Sometimes they were drunken pleas for forgiveness or absolution by firing squad. Other times it was whatever little bit of information he could give that couldn’t be traced back to him, that was useful but not _too_ useful so that he could give out more. He still tried to keep his promise to make things _right._

With Kylo Ren as Supreme Leader and the Allegiant General Pryde fixing him with that intense glower, things on that front were looking _grim_. Or, as Aneirin would say in her mother tongue, **_fucked in the ass by the guardian of Helheim._ ** It was a lovely language, especially considering this was all one word. Armitage was once informed that the guardian of this particular underworld was _well-endowed_ and _constantly on fire_. Not exactly a great choice for a partner, unless one was into that sort of thing.

So General Armitage Hux became desperate.

Suddenly the Resistance had a friend in a _very_ high place.

“ ** _Please pick up, please pick up,_** ” he prayed as the holo-emitter slowly strobed. He’d sent a message earlier dictating the intention of this verbal communication and for once actually used the designation Urgency 3. It was apparently the one right before matters of Corsairan planetary security, though he could find a few ways to justify that one.

“ ** _Make it brief_** ,” a harsh stony reply came at last.

“ ** _I will give the Resistance some very important information but only if you get me the fuck out of here,_ ** ” Armitage said rather quickly, very _quietly_ , but nonetheless _urgently_. Urgent 3, to be exact.

“ ** _And why would I-_** ”

“ ** _By all that is holy to your ancestors, love of my heart, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to the galaxy, or you can kill me, whichever, but I did the best I could and I didn’t even want to do that, so._** ” He took a deep breath, his mouth and mind working much too fast for the relaxant he took. With all the sorrow, horror, and heartbreak he could muster, he whispered, “ ** _Please come get me._** ”

“ ** _You’re bargaining your life for important information?_ **” Aneirin asked with biting disgust.

“ ** _No, I’m giving your superiors a reason to get me off of this sinking ship,_** ” Armitage tried to explain. The relaxant was keeping his hands from shaking. “ ** _I’ll give it to you anyway, but it’ll be the last thing I can do for you._** ”

He was a genius, maybe, or maybe not, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could give _this_ bit of information up without getting caught. There were all sorts of contingency plans that he’d cooked up, but none were as appealing, or as possible, as this Corsairan spy flying him out of there.

Tapping the blaster-armour underneath his uniform jacket, he expended the simmering anxiety pushing through his relaxants as he waited for the reply.

“ _ **Mission contingent on information** ,_” the reply came. It sounded very official. While she might have made the rank of general in the First Order eventually, he knew she was only more like an honorary captain in the Resistance. But being a spy, she was given some leeway.

“ ** _Please, I know I’ve said this before, I know I should've taken a bolt to the skull rather than give that order, but I thought I could do more good alive than dead._** ” He took a deep breath. No rebuttal came. She was considering it. “ ** _If I had chosen any differently, the First Order would have won already. You'd be dead. Everything you and your friends have done would mean nothing._** ”

Somewhere in a secured little spacecraft, hiding on the underside of an unsuspecting arms dealer freighter, Aneirin Pritchard sighed. “ **_I know. I know you made an impossible decision. It's just… hard._ **”

So the deal was accepted and the information was relayed. From Aneirin it went to a First Order lieutenant who would take a bribe where his Resistance sympathies and hatred of his employer failed to convince him to leave the datafile in the office of Sinta Glacier Colony’s mine overseer, Boolio. Boolio would hand it over to the crew of the Millennium Falcon and, for his trouble, have his head slammed on a First Order conference table with a sickening _squelch._

It took all of Armitage’s resolve to not lose his cool at the sight of what should have been his fate.

There were also a _lot_ of relaxants in his system. They were working. Mostly. Enough. He could use a few more. Pick up a hobby. Or a drink. A drink sounded _fantastic._

 _Focus, idiot_ , he thought to himself through the haze of chemical calm and adrenaline high. 

There was the perfect possibility that he would just be irrevocably _murdered,_ or just _die_ _,_ or any number of things. Armitage, while maybe perhaps a genius, maybe not, couldn’t account for _every_ possibility. He knew that. His rescuer knew that. Even the _mouse-droids_ knew it.

But he was still armed to the teeth and wore the armour under his uniform. At least it filled him out a little. If he survived all this, maybe he’d seriously get in shape. Or at least be fed proper food like a human being.

 _Kriff_ , the more he thought about, the more _fucked_ everything was. Who in the galaxy let it get like this? Generations of _idiots_ and _psychotic asshole_ s, that’s who.

Armitage just kept taking his relaxants so he wouldn’t just pull his blaster on Pryde and shout something completely insane and unintelligible, the looming reality of non-rescue and the bombardment of memories concerning years of abuse just trying to rush all out at once in a show of white-hot suicide-revenge. Who would take over for them? Everyone else was utterly useless, or at least he thought so. Why else would he be promoted to general at _30?_

If he wasn't found out, well, everyone’s incompetence would be proven and everything would go a lot smoother. But, really, he definitely knew that he'd get found out. It was just a matter of when and how it would happen.

He didn't really account for that Resistance trio: the turncoat trooper that he couldn't really fault, the towering ball of matted fur that he definitely wouldn't argue with and wish he hadn't insulted to appear like one of Pryde’s sycophantic underlings, and the pilot with the disarming charm whose ruse he'd, unfortunately, fell for initially but played along with expertly to buy the Resistance time to get away above D’Qar. For a moment he was worried that Aneirin wasn't coming and that she'd sent them instead, but that quickly became _very_ unlikely.

Really, he didn't ask to get shot to be _convincing_. There was not much convincing about _him_ _,_ a man with a great hand-to-hand record and certified sniper training, being overpowered and _spared_ by 3 Resistance fighters trying to escape. What he _really_ wanted was an excuse to leave the bridge for a hot second. Because unbeknownst to the rest of them, a dot had been slowly closing in on his location. Hopefully, that dot was secured to the airlock near the medbay and had gone unnoticed through technological wonders, luck, and sheer incompetence. 

With enough of the pieces in place, it was now or never.

Pryde’s shot _hurt_ , but it wasn't the end of the world. Well, it kind of _was,_ considering the next thing Armitage knew was darkness. Pain only briefly registered before the force of the blast on his armoured chest shocked his body into unconsciousness and the landing only made it worse. Perhaps it was better that way; he wouldn't have to act like he was dead.

It was actually quite fortuitous that he was knocked out cold, because it would’ve been _supremely_ embarrassing to know that he was being unceremoniously dragged by the ankle through the ship toward the medbay. Were they aware that he wasn’t really dead? Did they have some intention of keeping him alive, maybe torture him for information regarding the depths of his betrayal? Or were they going to freeze him and then use his body as some sort of macabre meat-puppet in a sick game as an example of what _not_ to do?

Armitage didn’t consider these things, the slick fabric of his uniform jacket made a soft _swish... swish... swish..._ as it slid from polished tile to polished tile. All he knew was blackness, the sweet sweet serenity of nothingness. Where the void of space was sublime, this was consummate bliss.

He did, however, miss the absolutely remarkable performance that was Doctor Aneirin Pritchard, Resistance spy and presumed-dead First Order captain, overpowering his would-be pallbearer.

The stormtrooper was stunned as a small blonde in a First Order officer’s uniform rounded the corner to the medbay airlock. 

“Captain,” the soldier acknowledged nervously, his right hand dropping Armitage’s limp booted foot with a resounding _thud_ in order to offer a salute. The captain looked at the stormtrooper, then at the body he’d been dragging, and then back up at the stormtrooper.

“Sorry about this,” she said honestly, a tinge of remorse in her voice. She really _was_ sorry about it; if he hadn’t been turned into a killing machine by the First Order’s child-soldier program, he might’ve been a good guy.

The stormtrooper didn’t have time to reach for his blaster before a foot connected with his chest and sent him right into a very solid durasteel wall.

Armitage had seen Aneirin kick a man before. Given the choice, he would’ve taken the bolt to the chest rather than her boot.

The doctor didn’t even bother checking if her damsel in distress was still alive, it made no difference to whether or not she hefted his body over a shoulder and punched in the code to open the nearby airlock.

“ **_Fuck_** , do you even _eat?_ ” she muttered to herself as his bony hips and lean ribs dug into her shoulder and chest.

In the _Eir_ , her personal spacecraft designed by Corsairan engineers to be the perfect counterintelligence ship, made specifically for her, Aneirin dropped the unconscious First Order general on a bed in the cramped med-suite. Undoing the clasps of her old uniform jacket, the Resistance spy rushed into the cockpit.

The little ship, sleek and thin like a leaf, detached from the _Steadfast_ and slipped into the background of stars.

As the ship’s hyperdrive computer stabilised, its pilot rushed back into the little med-suite, shiny black jacket discarded on the now-empty chair. While the ship was designed for one person in mind, a doctor wouldn’t be caught dead without some semblance of a medbay at their disposal. It’d come in handy quite a few times, the engineers were happy to hear.

Aneirin sagged with a sigh of relief to see that her redheaded damsel was still breathing. With a moderate amount of care, she administered a chemical stimulant to shock him back into the land of the reluctantly unconscious.

Like a falthier leaving its pen, Armitage sat up and banged his head right into an overhead light. Falling back down onto the bed, he pressed on the new wound with a gloved hand, pain contorting his features. A few choice words fell from his mouth, but the chuckle that reached his ears was immediately calming.

“Ani!” he cried before reaching out for a hug. His head swam with the sudden movement and when he closed his eyes, the blackness was studded with stars and static. A reassuring touch guided him back down onto the bed.

“All those relaxants paid off. You’d probably be in a lot more pain without them,” the doctor informed him with her wry smile audible. “It’s better if you’re relaxed when you hit the ground.”

They didn’t talk much as she more adequately patched up the blaster wound on his thigh; she was too busy and he was too fussy. Armitage was just beginning to be able to sit up when she handed him a pile of neatly-folded clothes. Taking them, he stared at them in mild confusion, almost as if it never occurred to him to wear anything but what he’d worn for over a decade.

“You look good in a uniform, but maybe not _that_ uniform,” Aneirin said with a smirk. For the first time, he really took in her appearance, especially the lower half of her wardrobe.

“I don’t know, seems like we match again.” After a hearty chuckle, the doctor left him alone to get changed, or at least put on the new trousers. They were a dark blue, thick to ward off the cold, and while they reached his ankles and weren’t too tight in the crotch, he was suddenly self-conscious about how well his thighs filled the trouser legs. Almost _too_ well.

He was admiring the star-burst bruise that was beginning to bloom on his sternum when the med-suite door swished open again. A bundle of dark cloth fell on the unoccupied bed heavily.

“I managed to nick something from your quarters. Thought you might want it.” Once again left on his own, Armitage picked the new item up to inspect it.

It was his coat. Or at least, he was fairly certain it was his coat, but it was missing the insignias.

Somehow it looked _better_ that way.

Properly dressed, Armitage made sure to remove the Merkbrecher C-1 from his old trousers and placed in the deep pocket of his greatcoat. Sure, its mate was mere meters away, but its weight was reassuring. The ink pen was removed from its false code cylinder and proudly secured in a breast pocket on his shirt.

With great respect and a bit of manoeuvring, he limped into the cockpit. Finding a seat, he loomed over her shoulder, watching as buttons were pressed, switches were flipped, and readouts were read.

“We’re going to Corsaira?” he asked in genuine surprise. “I thought you’d take me to the Resistance.”

“I’m a doctor and a _spy_ , not _Han Solo_. I’m not exactly suited for the Great Space Battle that’s brewing,” Aneirin mumbled quite seriously despite the humour of her words. “There’s trouble brewing in our system. I think I can do more good there. Besides, you’re _way_ too recognisable to let loose in polite society.”

“You mean the whole galaxy wants me _dead_ ,” Armitage corrected, though not as darkly as the statement merited.

“Yeah, basically.”

As the _Eir_ came out of hyperspace, the anticipation in the former general’s stomach turned into cold fear.

“What in the stars is _that?_ ” he asked his partner, green eyes not leaving the sight before them.

Like a great crystal bloom, something grand and imposing floated in space above the beautiful little planet. In the light of the nearby star, its tendrils appeared to twitch with life as its iridescent carapace shimmered.

“That’s the _Tyr_ _._ ”

Armitage had never seen anything like it. It was, if he was a poet, _sublime._

However, the swarm of TIE fighters circling this marvel were a sight he knew well.

“He’s not done yet, or else those fighters would be recycling scrap,” Aneirin pointed out with a grave expression darkening her face. The TIEs hadn’t noticed them yet, it seemed.

“We have to do something,” he said definitively, a protective urge filling his damaged chest.

“Us versus, what, 10 TIEs?” she asked with plain disbelief. Armitage shooed her out of her seat and felt way too big as he settled into it. “Come on, this is insane.”

“Maybe _you_ can’t do it,” he muttered as he readjusted the headset he’d watched her use, “but I have more than just a _shuttle_ certification.”

“I guess we have to die _sometime_ ,” Aneirin mumbled under her breath, though the fact that she was preparing for the impending battle meant that there would be no more arguments.

“I’m not one for the Force, but I have a _good_ feeling about this.”

 _As long as my luck today doesn’t run out_ , he thought to himself as he slipped into a strange serenity.

It was never really clear to him how it worked. There was some sort of _instinct_ , something deep and inexplicable that guided him through combat. That was what made a pilot a _good_ pilot, that ability to become a part of the ship. A light touch here, a split-second reaction there, and it all just looked like luck.

The little craft was much too fast and manoeuvrable for the TIEs, their designs outdated. Even through the blur of battle, Armitage could see that they were Imperial relics, probably assigned to this remote outpost just because they would be dead weight in the real war. Slipping through the silvery cables trailing behind the _Tyr_ with almost droid-like precision, Armitage led the TIEs in a game of cat and mouse. Every time one of their pursuers made contact with the cables and promptly erupted in a ball of burning fuel, he could feel the surge of energy as the doctor behind him pumped her fist in silent congratulations.

When all the fighters were dispatched, either by clever space-work or the _Eir_ ’s modest cannons, Armitage flew them past the massive ship in a lazy tour.

“Never thought I’d see Corsaira make a capital ship,” he said in awe, craning his neck to get a better look. “Seeing as you fought so hard to not have your resources mined.”

“It’s mostly recycling, I think. I don’t know the details.”

“What are the cables for?” A gloved finger traced their length in the air as if he could really touch them, feel their sleek curves.

“I dunno, I think it’s just not done,” Aneirin answered with a shrug.

“I’m surprised they got so much done.”

“Oh, well, they lied and said it was for the First Order.”

“I guess someone couldn’t wait,” Armitage managed to ponder aloud before their comms lit up.

“ ** _Eir, you’re free to land. The Crown requests that you dock in Malarra,_ **” a woman’s voice informed them in a language Armitage had quickly become accustomed to.

It was Aneirin’s turn to shoo him out of the pilot’s seat, his dogfighting complete. It didn’t take an ace to land a ship, after all.

The spaceport, or at least what served as a spaceport, was eerily quiet considering there was a gathered crowd. First Order uniforms and stormtrooper armour glinted in the noon sunlight. Aneirin didn’t bother reaching for the pistol on her hip; these unfriendlies were standing nervously on the other end of at least 4 dozen rifles. A nearby shuttle, an old _Lambda_ -class T-4a by the looks of it, was secured with docking clamps.

“ ** _Ah, our heroes!_ **” a man called out to see the two, languidly waving them over away from the group. He was lean and tall, about Armitage’s height. His outfit appeared somehow both functional and ornamental, but the overall impression was definitely militaristic. Plates of silver blaster armour gleamed in the sun, secured over a flowing tunic of sheer blue silk. Around his long legs billowed a multi-panel skirt of a similar fabric; crystal beads, sewn into the pattern of the night sky, sparkled with ethereal beauty as they fluttered in the wind. On one hip was a sabre, on the other was a blaster. On the chestplate was etched the emblem of Corsaira’s ducal family and on his head was a diadem of seven crystal spires.

“ ** _We meet again, Prince Sebastian,_ ** ” Armitage greeted him with no small amount of reverence and respect. He was, after all, at the mercy of the planet’s rulers. “ ** _As it was the first time, it is a great honour to be blessed with your radiance._ **”

“He really knows how to sweet-talk, doesn’t he?” Sebastian asked his childhood friend in Basic with a broad smile. “I’m glad I put on my best for this coup.”

“We certainly know how to start a revolution,” Aneirin mused as she took in the outfit. “Where’s my uniform?”

“We gave you a _ship_ , don’t get greedy,” he rebuked with a flamboyant wave of his hand. Fluidly, as if it was a dance, the prince wrapped an arm around Armitage’s shoulders and brought the older man into conspiratorial proximity. “But _you, you_ are getting a reward.”

“I think I’ve done enough damage that I’ll _never_ deserve a reward,” Armitage replied with a sullen downcast of his eyes.

“Maybe, but a little dragon told me that you’re a _very_ good engineer. I think we’ll call the whole thing even with Corsaira if you help us finish that beauty up there,” Sebastian explained, turning his bejewelled head to the sky and pointing up at where the _Tyr_ appeared like the sliver of a mirror next to a pale moon and its smaller pinkish sibling. “Maybe help us figure out how to make a long-distance space-faring engine that _doesn’t_ disrupt our precious ecological systems?”

“I suppose some principles of my original designs could work…” Armitage mumbled to himself, becoming lost in thought as this new task was put before him.

“Maybe we could, I dunno, _regain our independence?_ Make sure the First Order isn’t sticking around?” Aneirin butted in with a little annoyance.

“Oh, most definitely. We were _**just** _ trying to figure out what to do with our old friends here…”

* * *

Somewhere a bird chirped. There was the inviting scent of warm bread wafting on the breeze. It was warm but the sweat on his skin was cool.

Stepping back, Armitage Hux admired his work. Designed by himself, made from probably 50 ships’ worth of salvage, he was thinking of calling it the _Voogd_. He wasn’t very good at naming things, but its purpose _was_ to aid in security patrols, so it seemed apt.

The war was over, but the galaxy needed a lot more time to actually figure itself out. It wasn’t like the Republic was going to flourish after 2 years, especially considering the woman they’d built it around was now one with the Force. All the way out in Wild Space, it didn’t seem to matter much. Now, with something of a defence force, Corsaira felt as good a place to be as any.

With a resounding and impressive crack of his back, Armitage called it a day. Somewhere in Artificer’s Square, someone was waiting for him.

“ _ **Y**_ ** _ **o** u’re late,_ **” Aneirin Pritchard grumbled, not looking up from the book she was reading.

“Yes, well, I didn’t think you wanted me showing up with grease-stains and smelling like fuel,” he rebutted, smoothing down a lock of red hair that managed to escape its confinement. “It _is_ your induction into the Hall of Heroes, after all.”

“And you’re late,” she reminded him, though the lopsided smile on her lips was reassuring.

“I am _really_ committed to reinventing myself,” Armitage said with a light chuckle, slipping his hand into hers once she was standing beside him. As they walked toward the Hall in all its magnificence, not late in the least, he revisited a thought he had earlier that day. “Do you _really_ think I’d be recognised if we travelled?”

“I dunno,” Aneirin answered honestly with a shrug of her shoulders. “I guess you could wear a helmet all the time. Claim you’re a Mandalorian.”

“I’m not sure, sounds uncomfortable…” he muttered just loud enough for her to hear. “Would you find that sexy?”

“What? Having _you_ be my looming and brooding bodyguard but actually my partner?” she asked for clarification. Receiving an Expression akin to ‘why not?’ she laughed again. “Yeah, I guess that’d be pretty sexy.”

“You could be a senator and we’d have a sordid affair,” he explained, dramatically sweeping his hand. “And no one would _ever_ know the truth.”

“I was a _spy_ , you know. _Someone_ would find out.”

“Yes, well, maybe we can convince some admirals to grant me a pardon.” Armitage hummed in thought. “How much sway do you think Dameron has?”

“There _might_ be something to that…” Reaching the doors, Aneirin let go of his hand and rested it on the large brass ring that served as a handle. “I can’t figure out why he likes you so much.”

“You and I sleep in the same _bed,_ ” he whined, affronted. A flippant shrug of the shoulders was his reward. “Hey! I _know_ you like me.”

Aneirin’s face broke into a grin. “I just like pushing your buttons sometimes, that’s all.”

“Careful, I might drink too much at this thing and embarrass you.” Armitage crossed his arms over his chest and offered a smug look.

“Please,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes, “this whole thing is embarrassing enough.”

Walking through the Hall, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “But, _really,_ do you think Admiral Dameron could fix this?”

“I think you should invest in that Mandalorian armour.”


End file.
